Warriorship in Cuba: Part I

Cuba Warriors, Part I
Arrival in Havana–Fidel Photo Op

“So, today you will enjoy a kosher lunch, followed by a trip to the synagogue…” our guide looked at us blankly, waiting for a reaction.

Jeanine Greenleaf, the President of Samadhi Cushions and I, her husband, were in Cuba, traveling under the auspices of Shambhala. Our granddaughter Camille, a high school senior with four years of Spanish, would serve as a translator.

Jeanine’s daughter Isabelle and our younger granddaughter Sophie would join us from France. As French citizens, they didn’t need a special purpose to visit Cuba, but they were open to the requirements of our fact-finding journey to the communist country.

“A kosher meal and a trip to the synagogue?” Jeanine asked quizzically. Our van had just pulled up to the restaurant; presumably the kosher meal preparations were already underway.

“Yes, that’s what’s on the itinerary.” Said Ernesto, again without expression.

The day before, at the charter desk in Miami, our boarding passes for the hour-long flight to Havana had been stamped “Documents in Order”. Our General License—the one that allowed us to travel to Cuba legally—identified our purpose for the trip. The letter from the secretary of our organization stated that we would be exploring how Buddhism could impact the historically Catholic population.

Evidently, the tour company providing the van and guide had misread our letter. It turns out there is a small Jewish community in Havana. Jeanine smiled. “No, not Jewish—Buddhist. We are Buddhists in the Shambhala Tradition. So we don’t require a kosher meal or a trip to the synagogue. While that might be interesting, isn’t the goal of our trip. Rather than a synagogue, we need to visit a meditation center—a Buddhist meditation center.”

“Ah,” said Ernesto dispassionately. He looked up to think while scratching a day old growth of a beard. “That could be hard, I don’t think there is one.” Ernesto was a smart, urbane, educated, well-read and articulate young man of 30, with excellent English, French and Italian. As an employee of the tour company, he was also a government worker. The government owns all of the tour companies in Cuba.

“Let me make some phone calls, I will find out,“ he offered hopefully. We enjoyed a lunch of fresh fish at the restaurant, which was half-independent and half government-owned, not an atypical arrangement in the communist country. After lunch, Ernesto informed us that there was a group practicing “Vi-Vi-pa…” I finished the word for him, “Vipashyana?”

“Yes, that’s it. They meet every other Sunday in Havana. But they are not meeting this Sunday.” (In the intervening Sunday, the one upcoming, the venue hosted a yoga group.) Vipashyana would have to wait.

Jeanine meets an artist

After lunch we stopped by a community arts center in the neighborhood. Once inside, Jeanine struck up a conversation with one of the artists whose work was on display. Camille assisted in translation. Jeanine explained our quest to visit the apparently non-existent Buddhist Meditation center in Cuba.

“Well, I’m a member of a Dojo. My son goes too. You should visit and meet the Sensei. Come tomorrow.” The painter, a lively gentleman with bright blue eyes, wrote out his cell number and handed it with some explanation to Ernesto.

Back in the van, Ernesto looked anxious.  The “Dojo” (pronounced “doyo”) was on the south side of Havana in a poor neighborhood. “The Sen-sei?” He asked, pronouncing the word for the first time. “I’m not sure if we can go there.” (Later we found out that our guide was required to report and explain all tour changes to his supervisor.)

“We are going there,” Jeanine declared, ignoring Ernesto’s hesitation. Jeanine had a good feeling about the painter, who was warm and open. “The Sensei saved my life,” he had shared, hinting at story that would go untold.

Continued in Part II

Seven Reasons to Tell the Truth

True

I have two teenage granddaughters. Recently, one of them found herself in trouble. Then she lied about it. Her trouble deepened. Fully acknowledging the mysteries of transitioning to adulthood, as well as the hypocrisy of those who claim to utter only the truth, I nevertheless felt moved to put in a plug for things as they are.

There is much that could be said, but no time to say it. For all of us, choices between the truth and something else are being made everyday. “Life will go better for you if you tell the truth,” I say to my granddaughter with urgency, knowing full well that dictums from an old man might not be enough.

Inspired by the wisdom and example of my meditation teachers, and to combat the notion that the truth, like a lie, could possibly be avoided, I offer here seven reasons to tell the truth.

1. The truth can help. To quote Will Rogers, “When you find yourself in a hole, quit digging.” Lies require more lies, more digging. You may not want anyone to know you’re in a hole, but it’s hard to overcome in private what you deny in public. To climb out of a pit, you have to admit you’re in one. If a part of you is sunk, a part of you isn’t. That’s the part that can quit digging. If you’re down, telling the truth is like asking for help, when you do, options present themselves.

2. The truth plugs you in. The ‘well-connected’ aren’t diminished by being part of something. When you understand the ways in which we all connect, you aren’t afraid to share your thoughts and feelings with others. If you don’t share, you unplug from the community around you.  Sharing brings trust. Trust brings communication and exchange. Exchange makes the world go around.

3. The truth is a lesson. Our mistakes teach us. How else are you supposed to learn? If you are afraid to admit mistakes, you have failed to recognize their value. Not that you have to wear every failing on your sleeve. But by admitting the truth, you will begin to know the reasons for the choices you’ve made. When you understand what drives you, you will see how decent and good you really are. That is a lesson worth learning.

4. The truth moves you. The truth may not be what you think it is. When you share your story, it is the story of the moment. Once you tell it, truth turns a page. Lies might have been true once, but things change. Today’s truth might be hard, but if you can’t tell it, you have no way to get to tomorrow’s. Without the truth, you are stuck. You have nowhere to go.

5. The truth is worth sharing. It doesn’t just belong to you. If it did, it would be your truth, in the same way that your car is your car. Who cares about your car? The whole truth, like the earth or the sky, is something we share. It is a conversation, maybe funny or sad, sometimes both. It can be simple and may not be personal. Lies are only yours, a complication. When you try to share them, no one wants to hear.

6. Talking straight means you care. When you care about someone, you make an effort. Willing to be yourself, you show others that it’s OK for them to be who they are, to say what they feel, to relax. They might not go for the idea right away, but they will appreciate and remember you for it. Telling the truth is hard work. When you care about people, you can work hard for them.

7. The truth loves life. The smell of garlic, the taste of ice cream, the cut of a well-made dress, the smile from a sweetheart.  No one lies about the things they really love. To embrace even a small lie is to turn away from appreciating this one moment that is being alive. Life is big and rich. Lying makes it smaller and poorer. To love your life is to tell the truth about it.

Postscript: I end this blog post with less certainty than I began. While convinced that the truth is the “way to go,” I am wary of clinging to principle. In my own experience, the truth is “what works.” How? By waking us up. The truth helps us see ourselves and let’s others see us. In short, by invoking the heart in both the speaker and listener, the truth invites the warmth of awareness. Why can’t the truth be avoided? Well, it can. But sooner or later, as the saying goes, truth will out. How come? Maybe because somehow, somewhere, for some reason, the truth is something all of us already know.

 

Mom, Buddha and Nat King Cole

Nat King Cole’s 1943 breakaway hit Straighten Up and Fly Right is based upon a folk tale his preacher father liked to tell. In the story, a buzzard offers to take fellow animals for a ride, only to toss them to their death once airborne. The buzzard then dines on the carrion. After watching his jungle friends take the ride and bite the dust, a monkey hops on. Hip to the buzzard’s plan, the monkey employs his tail to choke the buzzard before the scavenger can do him in. In the song, it is the monkey who is admonishing the buzzard to “straighten up and fly right.”

While the crooner’s (catchy!) song reminds us about the perils of “riding” others, the question of who is in charge, of who is riding, and who is being ridden, is applicable to the relationship with our own mind and body. There is a kind of anxiousness, a choke-hold even, around our mental and physical responses to the ride that is life.  Ironically, while modern culture embraces discursiveness and a casual posture as evidencing freedom, these both can reflect the weight of subjugation, of “being ridden”.

In his classic sculpture, Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker appears crushed by the thoughts he shoulders. His fist supports the chin of his over-cluttered head, lest it drag the rest of him to the ground. My teenage granddaughter, now obsessed with her weight and enlivened by cravings, bends over her plate of pasta primavera without looking up. Clutching his iPhone, her trendy friend is hunched over the device like a mystic caught in prayer. My action-oriented buddy leans forward as he walks, as if angling toward his responsibilities will help him meet them a little sooner. Over 55 now, with faltering eyesight and (blessed/cursed) with a portable laptop, I too am starting to hunch even as I type.

Meditation practice is about letting the body and mind enjoy freedom from the tyranny of thought. The upright posture of meditation reflects the courage of a person willing to engage this vista. In meditation, the erect spine straightens the channels that link the body’s chakras or energy centers. This allows for the ‘yoga’ or ‘union’ of an unburdened mind and body. The result is a discovery of a natural clarity–leading to insight.

Interestingly, the physicality of merely sitting upright can be a challenge. Between meditation sessions, if your thoughts (or your linguini) have literally managed to bend you to them, your next practice session will bear the impact of this training. It’s axiomatic that posture effects physiology. There is something healthy about sitting up straight. An MD quoted on the website sponsored by Oprah says what your Mom may have already intuited when she told you to straighten up: “Poor posture actually accelerates the aging process, it lowers lung capacity, interferes with digestion, and puts abnormal pressure on the spine.”

Meditation practice begins with paying attention to one’s own mind and body. This is like the instruction on the airplane that has you donning your own oxygen mask before working to help others with theirs. Although it is not always obvious, our willingness to face our own experience is powerful and has a impact on those around us. As meditation masters have pointed out, a lot of the power of practice comes from sitting up straight and simply being aware as we inhabit space. In a word, posture is power.

This fact is borne out in studies by Harvard psychology professor, Amy Cuddy. In her TED talk featured on NPR, Professor Cuddy reported on the phenomena of “Power Poses”. Her study revealed that, “open, expansive, space-occupying” postures lead to measurable changes in hormone levels, self-confidence, how others see you, and predictably, performance.

Can we pause here to let our posture be open and expansive? Your head can float up as if pulled by a string, gently tuck in your chin. Relax your jaw. Pull your shoulders back a bit and let your torso expand. There, you are now in the posture of meditation. All you have to do next is find your spot and take your seat.  Meditation per se is a formality.

In Tibetan, one of the words for meditation translates as “bringing into reality.” Buddha and Mom understood something. Whether you are a yogi or a stockbroker, what you do with your mind and body in each moment will define your reality and the life you live. By that measure, everything is meditation. Every moment is an opportunity to practice straightening up. Whether we are in the meditation hall or at Starbucks, we don’t have to ridden by thoughts any more than we are required to ride them.

Wherever you are, when you feel your mind and body being pushed or pulled down by the invisible currents of thoughts that would ride or be ridden, gently upright yourself. Breathe and appreciate the space of the moment. And then what? Straightening up, you may discover a new strength and clarity. You may find in the expanse of that moment that there is freedom, and in that freedom there is more room to move, or as Nat King Cole would have put it–to “fly right.”

 

 

Meditation: Waiting to Connect

Meditation Circle

Meditation CircleIt was 1975. My Buddhist meditation teacher was coming to NYC. I wanted to see him. I also wanted my Aunt and Uncle, who lived near my boarding school in rural PA, to be able to appreciate him as well. Besides, I didn’t really know the city and could use some help getting there. A high school senior, I had been practicing on my meditation cushion for several years. Aunt and Uncle were skeptical. This was before the Dalia Lama, before karma was in Merriam Webster’s. If Buddhism wasn’t a cult, it was certainly foreign. Tibet was unknown. They found a babysitter, and we drove into New York City from suburban New Jersey.

The talk was in a spacious church. We arrived on time. There was plenty of room. Curiously, well after the starting time, people were still wandering in. At some point, the place was full and a bit noisy. The hall echoed as hip 20- and 30-something’s exchanged greetings and chatted.

How long did it take Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche to arrive? An hour? An hour and a half? Long enough for the lively chatter to be replaced with a subdued tension and the occasional grumble of irritation. My Aunt was no exception. She had found a sitter for her teenage children, had talked my Uncle into driving us, and now we were waiting. And waiting. Waiting for a person who was alleged to have answers, to have wisdom. No announcements were made to explain the delay. Frozen in the face of family turmoil, my stomach tightened, bracing for whatever happened next.

While her anger was never directed at me, in those days my Aunt had a temper. Arouse her wrath at your own risk. She was charming and smart, but if she was mad, she was not to be trifled with. After an uncomfortable hour in the pew, my Uncle suggested we leave. No, my Aunt was firm. We would stay. My own parents having separated many years earlier, my Aunt and Uncle were like a second father and mother to me. They were paying for prep school. Their home was my home.

My dad was in Texas, my mom in Boston, my younger brother in Colorado: life was already in pieces. Would anything ever connect? Not tonight. Hopes for a good impression had evaporated. My Aunt and Uncle were Christians, but not strictly. Having confronted the hypocrisy of church elders as a teenager, my Uncle, a budding artist, could wax cynical on all things pious. My Aunt remained open to the Protestant faith of her parents. Neither one was closed-minded.

Finally, just as people had started to leave, there was a shuffle on the stage and Trungpa sat down in the chair that had been waiting for him. He didn’t apologize for keeping us. If he even noticed the room’s irritation, it was hard to say. For half an hour or so, Trungpa spoke in a soft, high-pitched voice. I have no recollection of what he said.

As Trungpa spoke, my Aunt’s irritation seemed to grow. After hearing the questions from the audience that somehow overlooked his lateness, she turned to me. “How can he tell people to trust their own intelligence and keep them waiting for an hour and a half?” she asked, an edge of exasperation in her voice.

Knowing there was no answer, I mumbled something. Before I knew it, my Aunt was out of her seat and had approached the front of the room. Trungpa was still in his chair, sharing hellos with well-wishers at the foot of the dais. I followed along anxiously. Nicely turned out in a knit suit, her purse clutched under one arm, my Aunt put the same question to Trungpa. There was urgency in her voice.

My teacher leaned down, a smile brightening his face. “Well,” he said slowly, articulating each word, “It depends.” Incredulous, my Aunt reformulated her challenge. Again leaning towards her, Trungpa offered an explanation, “I didn’t want to jump the gun,” he said, seemingly delighted at having found the phrase that captured the moment. As if losing interest, Trungpa casually looked to the next person who was waiting to talk to him.

In my mind’s eye, there, in front of the stage, is where the top of my Aunt’s head kind of blew off. The conversation was over. We left the church and rode home. It was awkward. My Aunt and Uncle never asked to see Trungpa again. When they referred to him, in lieu of the honorific Rinpoche, they would call him ricochet.

Undeterred by this setback, after high school I moved to the meditation center Trungpa had founded in Northern Vermont. Two years later, I was off to college. Before I left, I shared with Rinpoche that the (one) school which accepted me had a program in Buddhist Studies. There was a very long pause. “I think you should study business,” he replied, without explanation.

As the years past and my meditation practice deepened, my Aunt and Uncle began to voice respect for the tradition I had embraced. Chogyam Trunpa died. I became a student of his son, Sakyong Mipham. They were especially pleased when the Sakyong named me Acharya, or senior teacher.

Tonight, almost 40 years later, we will try again. My wife and I will travel with my Aunt and Uncle to see Sakyong Mipham give a talk and sign books in New York City. My Aunt, once a housewife, is now a producer of cabaret. She has been reading the Sakyong’s latest book and “really getting a lot out of it.” My Uncle, an established sculptor and patron of the arts, is interested in doing a statue of Milarepa, one of the patron saints of Tibetan Buddhism. In addition to being a Buddhist teacher, I am a CPA. My Uncle is over 80, so we may not stay for the book signing.

And yes, I think we all are a bit anxious. As my Aunt shared with me approvingly on the phone the other day, she expects Sakyong Mipham to be on time.

The Reciprocity Foundation: Holistic Meditation and High-Risk Youth

Holistic Meditation and At-Risk Youth

UPDATE from Jeanine Greenleaf ~ 12/13/2013

Our mission at Samadhi Cushions is to support the practice of mindfulness meditation as a way to inspire a sane society. We have done this over the years in our support for retreat centers like our neighbor Karme Choling, which provide a place for busy people to slow down and meet their mind and heart.

At the same time, retreat centers are, by and large, privileged places for privileged people. I am so delighted that Samadhi Cushions is also able to support the retreats for less privileged youth like the one’s created by the Reciprocity Foundation.

Back in September we were able to make a meaningful pledge of support to Reciprocity–the New York based foundation that serves homeless and at-risk youth with mindfulness programs and retreats. We offered 10% of our September sales to the foundation. This month we fulfilled this pledge. Today, the co-director of this foundation, Taz Tagore, sent us the following email:

‘The Reciprocity Foundation is going to use the gift from Samadhi Cushions to send 30 homeless youth on retreat in 2014. This will give urban youth–most of whom have never left New York City–achance to experience meditation, nature walks and a healthy lifestyle. We are so grateful for this gift…’   

Holistic Meditation and At-Risk Youth

The Reciprocity Foundation is an award-winning nonprofit organization based in New York City that helps homeless and foster care youth break the cycle of poverty by advancing their education and orienting toward a meaningful life and career.

Our success is predicated on a unique process rooted in Contemplative Practice—which helps youth develop an aspirational and yet realistic Life Plan. Our coaching includes holistic meditation, mindfulness and contemplation, helping youth cultivate inner clarity rather than focusing exclusively on external outcomes. Finally, our one-on-one and group programming uses a Whole Person framework—endeavoring to address a youth’s mental, physical and spiritual needs.

New York City’s homeless, runaway, and foster care youth are among the most disconnected and high-risk young people in the city. Compared to their peers, they face grave challenges: they lack strong family support, face housing and educational instability and risk involvement with the juvenile justice system. Common mental health issues for this population include anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, suicide ideation/attempts, and substance abuse/dependency.

The Reciprocity Foundation has been a pioneer in developing and delivering Contemplative & Wellness programming to high-risk youth in America.  We began our wellness programming in 2005 with meditation and yoga classes. Since then, we have developed a world-class roster of wellness instructors, programs and tools that support  “Inner Growth and Outer Achievement” for homeless and foster care youth.

In 2011, we created the first holistic center for homeless youth in the country on New York City’s west side to deliver our Contemplative programs in a holistic, healing setting.  Our center opened in November 2011 and includes a dedicated healing space, a meditation room (with meditation cushions and a gong provided by Samadhi Cushions,) a media lab, a fully-equipped kitchen and a large multi-purpose area for yoga classes, career training classes, film screenings, etc. Since opening our new center, we have doubled the number and variety of Contemplative Programming offered from our center.

Last year, we expanded our 1- and 3-day holistic retreats from New York City to upstate New York at the Omega Institute and Shambhala’s Sky Lake Lodge. Youth attendees deepened their contemplative practice and engaged in whole-person practices such as yoga, walking/seated meditation, massage and mindful movement.

The meditation and retreat program at Reciprocity is having an enormous impact on the lives of homeless youth. What I find most moving is hearing first-hand how these practices affect our students.  Here are a few quotes that illustrate the power of meditation on the lives of homeless young people:

Every time I struggle and feel like I want to do something that was part of my old street life…I go to Reciprocity. They have a very nice meditation room there. I just go there and meditate. 10 minutes can make such a huge difference. Now I know how to make different choices so that I can stay off the streets.  

I was told by Reciprocity staff that I should come here everyday, sit in the meditation room and breathe.   I am not sure what’s happening but my life is getting so much better. I feel like I am leaving some of the old pain behind and slowly getting excited about being alive again.

My religious parents told me that they wished that I died because I am gay and that brings shame to our family. They disowned me. But, now I found a new family…my Reciprocity family. I feel loved here and I am working on building a new future for myself.

I love coming to Reciprocity. Every Thursday night we sit in meditation, have candlelit dinners and eat vegetarian meals.  I feel so energized by this way of life.  I had no idea that such simple things—like breathing and eating vegetables—could make me feel so good.  

Years of abuse left me with nightmares. After my first acupuncture session at reciprocity I was able to sleep again. This was the first time I had a good night sleep in years.

After going on retreat with Reciprocity, I went back to my shelter and started a weekly meditation group in the chapel.  I know that meditating is one of the most important ways for me to change my life and leave behind the negativity and anger that I grew up with.

Editors Note: This month (September 2013), 10% of ALL SALES at Samadhi Store will be donated to the Reciprocity Foundation. Help give the gift of holistic meditation–for yourself, or someone you care for and, this month, for at-risk youth.

A Buddhist Institute: Students Welcome

A while back in this blog we reported on a graduation ceremony of sorts for students in a residential program of meditation and study at Karmê Chöling here in Northern Vermont. The Buddhist Institute, which includes a month of meditation, runs in both the fall and spring semesters and is known as the Mukpo Institute–after the family name held by Chögyam Trungpa and his son and dharma heir, Sakyong Mipham.

While not monastic, this is a kind of ‘temple-stay’ at a Buddhist institution that goes beyond spiritual tourism.  It represents a commitment to deepening one’s relationship to the path of meditation, contemplation and enlightened social engagement. Students are supported by the residential community at Karmê Chöling as well as meditation instructors and mentors from the Mukpo Faculty. The intensive schedule–which includes the option for a solitary cabin retreat–also makes time for simply enjoying the splendor of the natural world in the idyllic setting that is the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.

This fall’s semester begins in a few weeks and I wanted to stop your mind by suggesting that perhaps YOU (whether young or old, experienced or novice) might consider joining in. The Institute’s semester will open on September 10th, with Shambhala Training Levels I-III taught by Mukpo Faculty Member, Shastri Bill Brauer and conclude in early December with a one day workshop on Work and Worth–taught by none other than yours truly.

In the interim, students will practice sitting meditation, study the path and view of meditation as presented in Shambhala, and participate in community life at the oldest residential Buddhist retreat center in North America. Through deepening one’s practice on the meditation cushion, and allowing time for contemplation and study, distractions are overcome and native intelligence is aroused. This accepting but critical attitude is encouraged toward the teachings presented, as well as toward oneself–the listener, the person who is there to learn.

The program is intimate, with a small group of students bonding with each other as well as engaging in work and community life at the retreat center. To date, over 50 students, both young and old, some at the start of their work life, others retired after an active career, some in the midst of a mid-life transition, have participated in this life-changing retreat. Could you be the next person to take this challenging but rewarding step? Could now be the time–for you or someone you know–to benefit from a change of pace as well as an immersion in the path of meditation?

Follow the link for some candid videos from graduates of the Institute. For for key information on this Buddhist Institute from Karmê Chöling’s website click here. Note that while the deadline for applications for this fall recently passed, my sense is that qualified applicants will still be considered. Note also that scholarship funds are available to help support student tuition.

“My experience at Karme Choling has spun me around 180 degrees. My life now has direction, meaning, and purpose. I met the most beautiful human beings I have ever been blessed to come across.”  

— Jesah Segal, Mukpo Institute Student, Fall 2012

 

How Meditation Might Improve Test Scores at Bronx Prep

Bronx Preparatory School at Open Hand Zen Center in New Rochelle, NY

Bronx, NY–

In early April 2013, high school juniors and seniors taking Advanced Placement Literature and Composition at Bronx Preparatory Charter School read a New York Times article in class: “How Meditation Might Improve Your Test Scores” (http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/04/03/how-meditation-might-boost-your-test-scores/). Nationwide, advanced placement exams are administered annually in early May.Bronx Preparatory School meditating at Open Hand Zen Center

The class had been preparing diligently since September. After 9 months of reading works from the AP Lit canon, annotating Chaucer and Ovid, debating Morrison and Ellison, writing analyses on everyone from Orwell to David Foster Wallace, practicing answering multiple choice questions on excerpts of Junot Diaz and Sharon Olds — even venturing out to late night Manhattan readings given by Ms. Olds and Mr. Diaz in the flesh — the class still felt anxious.

The Times article suggested that meditation can help anyone quiet down their racing thoughts and anxieties, and provide a tool to keep focused on one activity for longer periods. As a result, this improved quality of concentration could lead to higher test scores. And with the exam looming just around the corner, the class thought, why not give it a try?

So on the morning April 29th 2013, the 21 students each grabbed their own meditation cushion, which had been provided by Bronx Preparatory School at Open Hand Zen Center in New Rochelle, NYSamadhi Cushions (samadhicushions.com) and hopped on a school bus to The Empty Hand Zen Center (emptyhandzen.org) in New Rochelle, NY to learn to meditate. Guided by Susan Ji-On-Postal, teacher and founder of the Empty Hand Zen Center, they sat comfortably on their meditation cushions, focused on their breathing and monitored their wandering minds.

Most of the class has been asking to return ever since; some even ventured out of the Bronx back to New Rochelle to meditate again and others have taken their meditation cushions home to practice zazen on their own.

Although their scores will be released in mid-July, most of the AP Lit students appreciated the experience and stated that they’d continue meditation practice on into college to just “relax” and “focus the mind.”

 

Meditation Practice:10 Red Flags

Meditation Warning SignsSome “Red Flags” that might mean it’s time to  look deeper into your discipline of meditation:

1.  Sitting on your meditation cushion, you give yourself only one option: feeling good. As for the other stuff—more or less your life—you take the attitude that it’s somehow all behind you.

2.  In any given session, the number of times your mind meets the now corresponds with the number of times your smart phone vibrates.

3.  Your meditation is anxious. After all, it’s about time you were a better person.

4. Having decided that you are fine just as you were, you meditate like a zombie chillaxing.

5.  You understand your discipline to be a solitary endeavor. As for joining in group meditation, you’d rather visit a bus station after midnight.

6. At the meditation center, you’re a stickler for decorum, nickname: “Miss Manners.” Troubled by your indecorus posture adjustments at home, your practice partner knows you by another nickname: “Scratch n’ Sniff.”

7. Relying on “intuition” to guide your meditation, the sessions are getting shorter and shorter.

8. You see your practice as communion—what you call “deep listening.” Concerned about your dwindling social skills, your partner wonders if the issue is hearing loss.

9. A mindfulness session MUST include ginger tea, your favorite sweatpants, and the mala blessed by a Lama whose name you can’t remember. Lacking any one of these, you are lost.

10. The less you actually meditate, the more you are moved to share your alleged insights in a blog post.

Dear fellow practitioner, I like to write what I know.

When meditation is our own private affair, we overlook interdependence and lose touch with the source of our inspiration. When our practice is only social, we have trouble resting with aloneness, the source of our insight.

Elevating our discipline to something special and separate, we disconnect from the ordinary magic of life, and make meditation harder than it is. What if to meditate was to be human? What if practice was less about adopting a lifestyle, and more about showing up for life?
Without the pretense of a drama that limits meditation to “self-help,” our practice becomes a journey of discovery, or to put it more bluntly—unmasking. Letting ourselves be—even for a moment—is the practice of meditation. It happens now.  Why not consider that an invitation?

How do we know when we are practicing well? What does it mean to be human? Maybe these are the same question.

A Secret Shared

Tonight I have to be at the meditation center. Our little study group, all long-time practitioners of Buddhist meditation, will meet at 5:30. With our teacher’s blessing, 8-10 of us are reading and discussing sacred “terma,” or “hidden treasure” texts from the Shambhala tradition.

The road to this study group was long. Many years of dedicated meditation practice, contemplation, retreats, and funds were required. Perhaps this is why we are so few.

Students of meditation, we are also school teachers, engineers, bookkeepers, artists, Internet geeks, business executives, nurses, parents, and grandparents. The two texts under study highlight different views on the path of meditation and realization. Outside of our little group, we don’t refer to these texts by name or otherwise.

Last week, this most sacred of sacred, most inner of inner, contemplations began with Brussels sprouts. Roasted actually, with olive oil, and a dash of lemon. Catherine, following a simple recipe from Donna, brought these intriguingly named vegetables to share in our potluck. (Yes, the original sprout might have been cultivated in Belgium). It is not in my nature to appreciate Brussels sprouts. But these were lauded as exceptional and I was surprised how much I enjoyed the one I ate.

As we snack, we talk–current events, both local and global, inspiring or entertaining books, our own news, or news of others. The conversation, superficial or personal, is often animated–all of this without a PDA or a glass of wine. I know what you’re thinking: we must be old. Well, perhaps. We do all seem to be over 40. But our schedules are full. Savoring our exchange together, we are ageless.

If communication isn’t moderated, one might wonder, how it is that members of a group don’t all talk at once? What accounts for the smooth flow of speaking and listening that includes everyone in the group? According to social scientists, the answer is eye contact. And how often do we simply look at a face—and not because we’re waiting for change, or thinking about a kiss, or trying to manage the impression we hope to make?

Faces tell a story. The thoughts we’ve entertained over the years shape the way we hold our jaw, furrow our brows, manage our hair, and shift our gaze. Enjoying Brussels sprouts and Vermont cheddar (my contribution), we read the stories that life has written in the eyes, laugh lines, and crow’s feet on each other’s faces. And we listen–appreciating what is said, and what is unsaid.

I’m not sure why, but this social time is remarkable. Maybe it is the power of the meditation center, a neutral but uplifted space where one is somehow both a host and a guest—and neither. Certainly relaxation is encouraged when food is shared.  Perhaps our mutual intention puts us at ease. We all profess an interest in being less confused, more awake to life and more capable of being helpful. Certainly, we would acknowledge the benefits of slowing down in meditation and finding the space for contemplation.

Having snacked, chatted, listened and looked at each other, we clean up and head into the meditation room to find a seat, taking our sacred and secret texts with us. We arrange ourselves in a circle. Energized from our time together, there is a sense of relaxation and even celebration. Each class seems to begin with the same fresh discovery: we can connect, know and understand each other. None of us is so different from the other.

Sitting on my meditation cushion today, I am emotional. This small group of people has shared so much: years of study and practice, campaigns to establish and host spaces for others to learn meditation, and now the study of advanced and esoteric teachings on the nature of reality. But our spiritual accomplishment manifests very simply and humbly: we can be together, eat and talk. We have learned how to appreciate, respect and maybe even love each other.

Opening our texts, there is a silent acknowledgement. Whatever we may uncover in our study of the profound and sacred, it will arise out of what is shared—our humanness. And these insights, however subtle or surprising, will be accessible to everyone, anywhere, at any time—like the secret of a good Brussels sprout.

The True Refuge

According to my meditation teacher, to practice meditation is to be vulnerable, requiring the discipline of simplifying and slowing down. This journey takes intelligence and a willingness to acknowledge our connection to others. Sitting on our meditation cushion, we are exposed. Our willingness to be exposed is an expression of strength.

Of course security is important and meditation requires relaxation. But if we are left alone for a minute, and we give our discursiveness a rest, inevitably we begin to feel. To feel what we are feeling is to be human. To be human is to be vulnerable.

But now what? What next? Where do we go? Where is our refuge? Upon what can we rely?

It’s ironic, but some of us, even those of us practicing meditation, have forgotten that vulnerability is our natural state. Often unconsciously, we work to solve the dilemma of our thin skin by aspiring not to feel.

Co-opted by fear, our meditative discipline becomes a drug designed to enhance only the good and reduce or eliminate the trauma of living. As social scientists have come to recognize, in suppressing what is difficult in being human, we also lose what is sublime. Pursuing what is comfortable and protected, we find ourselves more dead than alive.

Unable to be simple, we need a story. We find protection in the righteousness of our discipline, or in a superior view, or maybe we embrace a spiritual path that sanctifies our togetherness. Aspiring to a higher and less vulnerable self, we confront the world with a knowing smile. With pride we offer to tidy up a mess of our own invention. As Bono sang, we are ready “to play Jesus, to the lepers in our head.”

Even if we don’t bother with elevating our self-esteem at the expense of others, our imagined insulation from the world permits a subtle nihilism. We allow ourselves the hypocrisy of pretending that our actions haven’t hurt others and that the hurts we have suffered are somehow behind us. The only way to maintain this self-deception is by moving along to the next thing. When it comes to what is real, and what is now, we demure. That is for another time, we tell ourselves, embracing small talk or the news of the day.

Absorbed in the drama of our security, we forget that what’s above us isn’t a roof. It’s the sky. Space that goes up effectively forever. We acknowledge the living earth only when it comforts or glorifies our existence. For the most part, we treat the planet as a corridor leading to our next destination. But this ‘corridor’ is spinning and careening through space. We, the inhabitants are also in transition, with no idea when our number is up. Being vulnerable makes sense. It is the way things are.

Instinctively, we know all this and our refuges are almost a reflex. Because the shelters we seek are reflections of our own insecurity, sooner or later they let us down. When our contract with the ‘other’ eventually falls through, we are left tilting at windmills, placing blame, and critiquing the demise of a world we ourselves had invented. A world built around imaginary contracts written to ensure that we would never be exposed.

Since we are involved in a pattern that betrays us, no matter how glorious or gloomy our circumstance, subtly we hold on to a sense of injury. Each day we  wake up with the feeling that we have been wronged and that life going forward needs to make it up to us, or at the very least, leave us alone. Our patterns reflect this complaint. They are circular, and having played one out without satisfaction, we are compelled in the moment to start again. Vulnerability is this fresh start. But now what? Where do we go? What is the true refuge, the one that won’t disappoint, the direction that doesn’t lead us in a circle? For a refuge to be real, it has to be true to who we are.

Meditation brings focus, centering and a measure of relaxation. But once this natural health has been experienced, our practice is a chance to feel. In spite of our humanity, we don’t always have the nerve or motivation to take this chance. Why should we? Because by slowing down, feeling and being, we can know and understand our hearts. Connecting to ourselves, our connection to others is revealed. Naturally, we discover that we care. When we discover caring, the one true refuge is available.

This true refuge is native and easy and it is a decision made after careful consideration of the alternatives. It is personal, manifesting differently because we are all different. Whatever the expression, it is the one way to connect with the world that brings peace. Because it has to start somewhere, it could begin with admitting that there is nothing wrong with who we are. It might mean extending ourselves or practicing forgiveness . Because it is both natural and imposed, sometimes it means “YES!” and sometimes “NO!” It is the path that will never disappoint or mislead. It is the only way forward, the only way to grow.

The one true refuge? Kindness–to oneself and all beings.

Editor’s Note: An interviewer once asked the Dalai Lama how he got over the desecration of his country by the Chinese. He look puzzled: “I didn’t,” he replied. When Mr. Greenleaf was asked about this post, he shared that it was written “at a difficult time, after my favorite refuge had let me down—in what I imagined to be a big way.”  For more on the power of vulnerability, see the Ted Talk by Brene Brown.